


Whumptober prompts 2018

by guppy_mckay



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guppy_mckay/pseuds/guppy_mckay
Summary: Random selection of prompts used in not particular order in the hope of reviving my writing ability. Sporadic updates likely.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 50





	1. Insomnia

**_Gosh…where to start? Sincere apologies to anyone still patiently waiting for me to update and complete my story “Betrayal Never Comes From Your Enemies.” The long absence is due to a serious medical issue that required brain surgery and loads of chemo. Though my prognosis is very optimistic, I have lost some cognitive and memory function which has affected my ability to write – among other things._ **  
**_As a writer who has always mapped out my stories in my head rather than on paper or computer, the truth of the matter is, I have no recollection of what I had planned for the rest of the “Betrayal” story. However, I am nothing, if not determined and I will be working hard to find a way to finish it that will, hopefully be worth the wait._ **  
**_For now, I am trying to ease my way back into writing by using the Whumptober (2018) prompts. I’ll be trying to post a few short one shots here and there - I won’t do them all and they certainly won’t be in any order - but, hopefully, they will be of an acceptable standard and will help me get my swing back._ **  
**_Many, many thanks to those of you who reached out to me with prayers and well wishes. Gabby._ **

**Insomnia**

  
After four days on the road, an unexpected thunder storm caught the Musketeers just five miles short of the garrison when fading light made the journey too hazardous to continue. Finding shelter beneath the canopy of a large tree, they quietly and systematically set up camp, started a small fire and attended to their horses.  
Aramis had just shared the last of their provisions of bread, cheese and cured meat between them when d’Artagnan abruptly climbed to his feet.

  
“I’ll take first watch,” he muttered, fastening his weapons belt and moving to the perimeter of the camp.

  
“Oi! It’s Athos’ turn to take first watch.” Porthos’ call fell on deaf ears as the younger man continued to walk away.

  
“What about food?” Aramis called after him. “You’ve barely eaten a thing in days.”

  
Sighing audibly at the lack of response, the marksman placed d’Artagnan’s dinner to the side and passed the remainder of the food to Athos and Porthos.

“He cannot continue to skip meals like this,” Aramis said. “It’s unhealthy.”

  
“You sayin’ you never lost your appetite pinin’ over a woman?” Porthos asked.

  
“Not at all,” the marksman replied. “I am merely suggesting that if the lad gets any thinner, I could use him as a musket rest.”

  
“He’s not sleepin’ either,” Porthos said chewing thoughtfully. “He pretends to be sleepin’ but I know ‘es awake. These last few weeks ‘aven’t been easy for ‘im. Losin’ his father, then the farm and now Constance.”

  
“I fear as long as Constance Bonacieux remains a married woman, she and d’Artagnan will never truly know the joy they seek.”

  
“Says the man who’s bedded more married women than he’s ‘ad hot dinners,” Porthos chuckled.

  
“True,” Aramis grinned. “But the difference, mon ami, is that I always gave them back. I never tried to keep one.”

  
“Maybe the lad just needs someone to talk to,” Porthos suggested. “Someone ‘e looks up to and admires like…like an older brother.”

  
Across the campfire, Athos continued to eat his meal. The unusual silence drew his attention and he lifted his gaze from his food to find his Aramis and Porthos looking at him expectantly.

  
“Absolutely not,” he said firmly.

  
“Athos, the lad is miserable,” Aramis told him.

  
“And you believe that I can, somehow, remedy this?”

  
“Not remedy, exactly, but maybe, you can get ‘im to open up a little?” Porthos added.

  
“I am not the man for this task,” Athos told them. “With all you know of me, how could you possibly believe I can provide d’Artagnan with perspective and counsel on this matter?”

  
“Then speak to ‘im about somethin’ else…them fancy books you’re always readin’, sword fightin’, life on a farm, anythin’,” Porthos said.

  
“I am hardly an example of happily ever after,” Athos protested.

  
“Perhaps not,” Aramis stated. “But you are an excellent example of life goes on.”

  
Athos’ stoic express grew uncharacteristically uncertain.

  
“What would you have me say?”

  
“Just listen to your heart,” Aramis said. “It will guide you.”

  
Several long moments passed before Athos, reluctantly, pulled himself to his feet and headed off to find the heartsick, young Gascon. He found him sitting on a fallen tree trunk, staring off into the distance. Athos quietly cleared his throat to signal his approach and d’Artagnan’s suspiciously shiny eyes flicked in his direction. He lowered his head to hide his embarrassment as Athos took a seat beside him.

  
The swordsman quietly cursed as his usual eloquence failed him. Several moments passed before d’Artagnan broke the silence.

“I know she’s a married woman and I’ve no right to have such feelings - but I can’t help it. From the moment I met her, she took my breath away. She’s the finest woman I’ve ever met and, even now, when she’s told me there’s no future for us, I can’t stop thinking about her. I never intended to fall in love with her, Athos, but every time I saw her, I loved her a little more.”

The young man got to his feet and began to pace.

  
“I know she felt the same. The way she looked at me, the way she…well…she loves me, too, I know she does. I will never believe that it was just a silly flirtation. Some way to fill the time while her husband was at work. Constance isn’t like that!”

  
D’Artagnan stopped pacing, his eyes widening in realisation.

  
“Constance isn’t like that,” he repeated. “She would never set out to hurt me, that’s not who she is! Something happened…something or someone! Bonacieux! He found out about us! Maybe he threatened her…told her never to see me again? That has to be it – that’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  
The Gascon resumed his pacing.

  
“Perhaps there’s still a chance for us. I just need to give her time to realise how she truly feels,” d’Artagnan said with a goofy grin before grabbing the older man by the shoulders and pulling into a backslapping hug. “There’s still hope, Athos. Hope that one day, Constance and I will be together forever.”

  
0ooooooooooooooooooooooooo00oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo0

Porthos and Aramis were quietly playing a game of cards when d’Artagnan happily strolled back into camp like he didn’t have a care in the world. They watched silently as the younger man devoured his dinner before wishing them a good night and climbing into his bedroll. Almost instantly, d’Artagnan was peacefully sleeping and snoring softly.

  
“Well, would you look at that,” Porthos said. “Seems Athos found the right words after all.”

0ooooooooooooooooooooooooo00oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo0

Thanks for reading. G xx


	2. No...Stop!

Heartfelt thanks for the prayers and well wishes, the reviews and encouragement. Bless, Gx

The door to the small inn opened forcefully, nearly tearing it from its rusted hinges. The innkeeper, assuming trouble, rounded the bar with a large pick handle to deal with the intruders. He stopped short, when he found himself looking down the barrel of d'Artagnan's pistol.

"Put down your weapon, Monsieur, we mean you no harm" the Gascon said. "We are King's Musketeers in need of your assistance."

"There are more polite ways to ask for 'elp, lad," the innkeeper growled. "Didn't 'ave to kick me door down, ya know."

"I apologize," d'Artagnan told him with a nod of his head. "We have an injured Musketeer and are in need of food and lodging."

"It's a quiet night," the man replied indicating the empty room. "Bring 'im inside."

D'Artagnan turned back to the door and whistled sharply before looking around the inn. It was a small concern, with a few long tables and benches positioned around a large inglenook, the fire within looked warm and inviting. The Gascon and the innkeeper cleared a large dining table as Porthos and Athos entered, all but carrying Aramis between them. The marksman bit back a scream as they settled him onto the table.

Removing his hat, Athos turned to the innkeeper.

"Monsieur, our friend has a musket ball lodged in his side. He requires the services of a physician," Athos told him, his pale face marred by the stark contrast of dried blood from an earlier head wound.

"Hasn't been a physician in these parts for nigh-on ten years," the man told them.

"Then we must remove it ourselves. We will need clean water, bandages and a bottle of your best brandy. You will be duly compensated for your co-operation."

Nodding his head, the innkeeper left to adhere to the swordsman's request while d'Artagnan opened Aramis' medical kit and grimaced at the macabre and menacing looking instruments.

"Give me a 'and," Porthos said as, together, he and Athos gently tried to remove the marksman's frock coat. Aramis grunted in pain at the movement.

"Easy, Mis…easy," Porthos said. "We gotta get this off."

Finally removing the coat, the larger man winced at the sight of the still bleeding wound as he eased his barely conscious his friend back onto the table.

"He's lost a lotta blood," he stated, placing one hand on Aramis' shoulder in a gesture meant to provide comfort and keep him still.

Easing the marksman's head up a little, Athos placed the bottle of brandy to the ailing man's lips.

"Drink. It will help take the edge off," he told him, watching as Aramis took several large swallows before closing his eyes and feeling the burn of the alcohol numb his senses.

"We gotta get that ball out now," Porthos said.

"No, stop," Aramis whispered. "The instruments…first place instruments in…in boiling water."

"d'Artagnan has already done so," the swordsman told him. "They will be ready shortly. In the meantime, we need to clean the wound."

Porthos picked up a bottle of wine and pulled the stopper with his teeth before preparing to pour it over the open wound.

"No…stop," Aramis rasped again. "Brandy…use the…the brandy."

"That's gonna 'urt like 'ell," Porthos said.

"Al-already hurts like…like hell," came the breathless reply.

Porthos flicked concerned brown eyes to Athos, who reluctantly nodded before he and d'Artagnan moved to hold the marksman firmly in place. A liberal amount of brandy was poured over Aramis' wound, causing the younger man to arch his back off the table as an agonised scream tore from his throat. By the time awareness had returned to the marksman, Porthos was inspecting the wound with a large pair of tweezers in his hand.

"No…stop," Aramis moaned.

Porthos rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Mis…enough stalling. This has to be done!"

"No off…offense, mon ami, but those…those large fingers aren't…aren't known for their finesse," Aramis slurred as the blood loss, pain and alcohol made their presence felt.

Porthos stood, mouth agape and with an affronted expression, until he was none too gently shouldered aside by Athos.

"For the love of God," the swordsman uttered impatiently as he took the instrument from Porthos' hand.

Athos nodded his readiness to the others who tightened their grip on Aramis. As he was about to insert the tweezers into the wound, Aramis spoke again.

"No, stop!" he uttered. "Athos has…has a head wound."

"I am perfectly fine," Athos replied sternly. "Now, for all of our sakes, pass out or we'll knock you out."

He glared in disbelief as Aramis shook his head defiantly.

"D'Artagnan…I want…I want d'Artagnan."

Placing the tweezers on the table with more force than was necessary, Athos rolled his eyes and stood aside for d'Artagnan to take his place.

As the younger man picked up the tweezers, Aramis lifted his head to speak.

"No, st-"

The marksman's head snapped to the side as Athos landed a solid right cross to the injured man's jaw and he stilled immediately.

"Is he out?" Athos asked matter of factly.

Porthos tapped Aramis' cheek and lifted one of his eyelids, noting the dark eyes had rolled back.

"'e's out," he confirmed.

"He _was_ warned, was he not?" Athos stated, turning to the young Gascon whose mouth was still gaping open in surprize. "d'Artagnan...Aramis has no further objections. You may proceed."

**0ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo00ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo0**

A/N As we go along, it's quite likely that you'll find plot holes or words used incorrectly or omitted. Although I'm reading and re-reading these stories and checking for errors, I quite often miss them as it's part of the problem I'm dealing with. So, please feel free to let me know if anything's awry and I'll do my best to rectify it. G xx


	3. Bloody Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks after Savoy, Aramis' recovery suffers a small setback.

Porthos nodded a wordless acknowledgement to the stable boy as he handed him the reins of his horse and strode purposefully toward the infirmary. He stopped mid-stride when he heard his name called from across the compound. Turning on his heel the large Musketeer’s brow creased in a confused frown as Athos closed the distance between them carrying a bucket and with a towel draped over one shoulder.

“Where is ‘e?” Porthos asked. “How bad is it?”

“This way,” the swordsman said, leading him toward the stables.

Porthos dug in his heels, grabbing hold of the older man’s arm and halting his progress.

“Answer me,” he growled. “How bad is ‘e and what the hell ‘appened?”

Sighing, Athos placed the bucket at his feet at met the larger man’s concerned gaze.

“We agreed Aramis has been too long indoors since Savoy. I managed to persuade him to avail of the sun and fresh air and assisted him downstairs.”

“Go on,” Porthos urged.

“There was a training accident and-”

“A training accident? What the ‘ell was Aramis doing training? You know he’s still weak as a kitten!”

“If you’d allow me to continue…” Athos glared.

“Sorry,” Porthos muttered.

“One of the newer recruits, Francois, was partaking in shooting practise when his musket malfunctioned. A large piece of shrapnel embedded in his abdomen. Aramis was by Francois’ side in an instant, rendering aid until Doctor Gillet arrived and Francois was moved to the infirmary.”

“Okay…so where’s Aramis now?”

“When I returned from assisting the others to carry Francios to the infirmary, Aramis was gone. I eventually found him behind the stables, just staring into space.”

“He say anythin’?”

“Not a word,” Athos sighed. “That’s when I sent for you.”

“Damn,” Porthos whispered, carding agitated fingers through his tight curls. “He was just startin’ to come back to us. We need talk ‘im round before ‘e gets lost in his ‘ead again.”

With a nod of agreement, Athos led the other man behind the stables to the corrals. Aramis was sitting on a bench, his head bowed as if in prayer and his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at his bloody hands. Despite the warmth of the sun, the younger man was visibly trembling as Athos took a seat beside him and Porthos crouched in front.

“’Hey,” the larger man said softly. “Athos told me what ‘appened. You alright?”

Aramis didn’t acknowledge their presence as he continued to stare at his hands. With a sigh that travelled from his boot tops, Porthos placed one hand on Aramis’ knee and moved slightly until he was in the younger man’s eye line.

“Eh, Mis, you wiv me?” he asked gently.

It was the warmth of the large hand on his knee that finally captured Aramis’ attention, his breath hitching slightly as he belatedly registered the presence of his brothers.

“s’cold,” Aramis whispered, his dark eyes glassy and unfocussed. “The snow…s’cold.”

“He’s in shock,” Porthos said, quickly removed his doublet. Placing the garment around his young friend’s shoulders, and grimacing at the too thin frame, he watched as Aramis shrugged into its warmth.

“He appears to be having a flashback of some kind,” Athos added.

It had been four weeks since they’d brought Aramis home from the site of the massacre at Savoy. For two of those weeks, the younger man had flirted with death - fevers, hypothermia and a serious head wound fought tenaciously to bury him with his slaughtered brothers. When, finally, the threat of his physical demise had eased and Aramis became more cognisant, the disjointed memories of the slaughter returned in grisly flashbacks and terrifying nightmares that had nearly robbed him of his sanity. Throughout it all, Athos and Porthos remained steadfastly by his side, fighting as furiously as they did in battle to free the younger man from his despair and misplaced guilt. Though they knew Aramis’ journey to recovery would be a long one, these past few days, they had been heartened by fleeting glimpses that their young friend was finally making progress. The thought that this incident could lead to a serious setback filled both men’s hearts with dread.

Aramis’ gaze settled on his hands and he took a shaky breath.

“I couldn’t save them…there was too much blood,” he said mournfully and lifted his hands to show them. “It won’t come off…their blood will be forever on my hands.”

Athos took the younger man’s chin in his hand and turned it until he could meet his gaze.

“Aramis, listen to me,” he said firmly. “This is not Savoy. We are here at the garrison. We are safe.”

The marksman continued to stare incomprehensibly.

“Let’s just get ‘im cleaned up, yeah?” Porthos suggested reaching into the bucket Athos had brought with him. “Maybe that’ll ‘elp.”

Aramis remained unusually compliant as the larger man took the soap and brush and began to scrub the blood from the younger man’s hands. As the blood washed away and his skin was cleansed, the marksman’s trembling lessened and his breathing calmed.

The sound of footsteps drew their attention as Captain Treville arrived. 

“How is he?” Treville asked, scrutinising the marksman with sharp blue eyes.

“A little confused, Captain,” Athos replied giving a tiny shake of his head to prevent further questioning. “Nothing that rest and a hot meal won’t remedy.”

“What about the boy?” Porthos asked. “How’s he doin’?”

“Francois should recover fully,” Treville replied. “Doctor Gillet is certain the lad would have died if Aramis hadn’t stemmed the blood flow.”

Moving to stand in front of Aramis, the captain clamped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Well done, son,” he said, not waiting for a reply from the dazed man.

With a knowing glance to Athos and Porthos, the captain departed.

Porthos ruffled Aramis’ untamed locks, chuckling when the marksman threw up his arm to block the affectionate gesture – a sure sign that their friend was recovering.

“You ‘ear that, Mis?” he grinned. “You did it. You saved Francois. He’s gonna be fine.”

“Gonna be fine,” Aramis repeated barely audibly. “He’s…he’s gonna be fine.”

“I believe you’ve had quite enough excitement for one day,” Athos suggested, helping the marksman to his feet. “Let’s get you to your quarters.”

As the three men walked slowly towards the barracks, Aramis whispered quietly to himself.

“It’s not Savoy…we’re safe…it’s not Savoy.”

**0oooooooooooooooooooo00ooooooooooooooooooo0**

**This is harder than I anticipated and thoroughly exhausting. Please excuse any future tardiness. Thank you all for your very kind comments and support. Gxx**


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